Why I Hate Mistletoe
by Pugglemuggle
Summary: Lovino hates mistletoe now, and it's all Antonio's fault. Spamano One-Shot.


Shit.

_Shit._

This is exactly why I hate Christmas; big, loud holiday parties where you're forced to invite everyone you know, grinning idiots who won't leave you alone for _one fucking second_, and…

…mistletoe.

Right here, right now, mistletoe has made its way to the very top of my list of 'Things I hate about Christmas". And it's all his fault. Ever since six o'clock, the time my brother's and my party started, Antonio has been following me around everywhere. Usually, he doesn't make any effort to be even a little bit punctual, but for some reason, he was on time today. So, he's been within a three foot radius of me for… what? About four hours now? Five? I don't even know… That stupid red wine that Francis brought is making it hard for me to figure out what time it is.

…Speaking of the damn Frenchman, I don't think I've seen him since at least an hour ago (or maybe two hours- I've already said that I'm not really sure what time it is). The last time I saw him, he was dragging a very drunk-looking Arthur into one of my brother's spare bedrooms…

Actually, never mind. I don't even want to think about what they're doing in there.

Anyway, my original point was that I despise mistletoe with a fiery passion great enough to rival that of a thousand suns, or even a thousand Antionios. It's true that he calls himself the 'Country of Passion', but we Southern Italians can be pretty passionate also, especially when it comes to hating things.

And this particular little sprig of sickeningly cheery-looking mistletoe _should_ be incinerated by now, what with the intensity of my burning hatred for its existence _right above us_. Who put it there, anyway? Francis? No; he's… occupied… elsewhere. Antonio himself could be to blame, but I don't even think he knows it's here. He's not looking above our heads at _all_, he's just looking at me, with his eyes half lidded, a seductive grin stuck on his face like a bow on a Christmas present wrapped up in cheep American wrapping paper. I'll never cease to be amazed by how sexy he is without even trying, or realizing it, for that matter.

The reason I'm not protesting about the way his hands are sneaking around the small of my back to pull me closer into his chest is because I don't want him to look up and realize that there's mistletoe above our heads, _not_ because I'm captivated by his Spanish charm or anything like that. Nope. Not at all.

Stupid fucking mistletoe, making me resort to such extreme measures to avoid giving him a justifiable reason to – God forbid – _kiss _me.

But right then, everything I've done to ensure that Antonio remains ignorant of the mistletoe turns out to be a total waste of effort on my part. As soon as I see his gorgeous green eyes flick upward briefly, just fleetingly, not even for a second, I know that he knows, and anything I might try to do next won't stop the inevitable.

"Just _one. _That's _all_. I mean it." I mumble. Even if my fate is unavoidable, that doesn't mean it can't happen under my own terms. I scowl at him, because I need to try to preserve whatever scraps of my dignity I can after this, thank you very much. Besides, the alternative is succumbing to his alluring sexiness by acting like I'm letting him do this willingly, which, of course, is _not an option._ So instead, I glower at him, even though the later option actually seems surprisingly attractive at the moment.

Fucking wine.

He leans in closer to me, brushing away a strand of hair from my face and trapping me with his arms around my back, holding me against his chest. I wrap my arms around his back as well, just because I don't know what else to do with them, of course. No other reason, like actually _enjoying_ the close contact and craving more of it, despite how much I normally resist it. Not that at all.

"You're so cute, Lovi! Just like a tomato," he murmurs, and before I can come up with some sort of retaliation to being called 'Lovi' and being related to a tomato, he distracts my mouth momentarily by pressing our lips together in a slow kiss. While I did say one kiss, I guess I didn't specify the length of the kiss, which he's obviously taking advantage of. Our lips move in sync, parting at the same time to allow the exchange of breath and a hint of tongue. Despite myself, I find that I'm closing my eyes and falling deeper and deeper into the kiss. While Antonio may be an oblivious bastard with a disturbing tendency to like people significantly younger than him, he's a great kisser. He knows how to use his mouth to make you forget everything but him and his lips. I don't even notice the small moan that escapes from my throat, or the way my hand is fisted in the fabric at the back of his shirt, or how his hand that was once positioned at the small of my back has shifted downward to another region entirely, known as my ass. What a bastard.

Suddenly, he pulls away, leaving me breathless and red-faced. Had I not been rendered incapable by that too-long yet too-short kiss, I might have protested, or glared, or even tried to slap that shit-eating grin off his face. However, I'm a bit too preoccupied with trying to redirect the blood that is rapidly moving south because of how incredibly hot that kiss was and because of our intimate proximity.

"Is it okay if I stay after the party's over?" he asks quietly in my ear, and I find myself nodding. So much for dignity.

"Alright, I'll see you later then."

"Mmgh."

"Feliz Navidad~!"

"…Buon Natale…"

And then he's gone, and I'm alone for the first time that night, trying to figure out exactly what I've just agreed to. What the mistletoe has forced me to agree to. Because, of course, it's all the mistletoe's fault.

Stupid fucking mistletoe.


End file.
